Chapter One

Summer 1307

Saunt Ceerus, Scotland

SHE HADN'T TRAVELED far or often in her life, but she had yet to find a place as dramatic or as magnificent as home. The landscape surrounding Lochlan Hall swept along the sandy shore of the Aberdeenshire coast, just north of Montrose. With towering sea cliffs and swathes of beautiful beaches, the fortress was surrounded by an ever-changing view of the sea, a rich colony of sand dunes and flower-rich meadows, the vista never less than stunning.

Wildflowers thrived in the inland grasslands, sheltered from the sea by the cliffs and dunes. Now, at the height of summer, they were a riot of color—the deep violet of clustered bellflower, the vivid red of the delicate maiden pink plant, and the pale purple of the knapweed.

The cliffs themselves were home to hardier species, able to cope with the thin soil. Sea pink, or thrift, filled the crevices while her favorite, the cascading white sea campion dripped graciously down the cliff face. Gray and white fulmars nested in sheltered nooks at the top of the cliffs and less often, peregrine falcons might be spotted as well .

The beach directly below Lochlan Hall stretched for more than a mile, the shore flat and the beach wide. Sand dunes mounded at both the north and south ends and only a few plants were able to survive there, marram grass and the gray-green sea-lyme grass. In the spring there might be purple vetch and blue forget-me-nots, but their color had months ago faded.

The beach was rarely vacant or without industry. Unless one ventured beyond the northern bend, around a rocky outcropping where the sea could sometimes dash a person against the bare-faced rock, it was rare to find sanctuary or solitude on the beach.

Raina MacQueen sat, as she did once a week, upon a chair and at a table planted in the sand, surveying the scene. Lochlan Hall's fishing industry was alive here at the edge of the sea.

Nets, dark and heavy with recent use, were stretched out over wooden frames, drying in the sun. A row of simple fish weirs, constructed from wooden stakes and woven branches, jutted into the tidal waters, guiding fish into traps with the rhythmic push of the waves. Currachs, the small, rounded lightweight boats, bobbed gently at the water's edge, ready for the next outing.

Nearby, a series of wooden racks held the day's catch, salmon and other fish glistening in the sunlight as they dried. Smoke curled from a few low huts, the rich scent of smoking fish punctuating the tangy sea air. Inside, rows of salmon hung from hooks, curing slowly over smoldering fires.

Workers stood at cleaning stations, their hands swift and efficient as they gutted and cleaned the fish. The offal was collected in wooden basins, soon to be discarded or repurposed as bait. Barrels of salt were lined up under a makeshift shelter, ready to preserve the next batch of the harvest.

Raina's gaze shifted to the storage area where barrels and baskets of processed salmon were neatly stacked, awaiting transport. Nearby, a group of men loaded the packed fish into a sturdy knarr, Lochlan's lone cargo ship, its hull wider and deeper than the currachs, built for greater voyages, ready to carry the cargo forty miles to Aberdeen.

More than twenty people were busy upon the beach on the weekly shipping day, but none spoke to her. Even when they lined up to receive their benefit, the coins Raina would record and disperse, they would scarcely deign to speak to her. At best, they were cool, only woodenly polite, as if they expected her wrath if they were not. At worst, they sneered and scowled at her, hardly bothering to conceal their disdain.

She was Lady Raina in their eyes, entitled daughter of an unkind lord.

Suspected witch as well, she was too often compelled to acknowledge, or meanly reminded. Though it took great effort, she preferred not to think about that unjust, unwarranted accusation.

Recently returned from her aunt's house near Glasgow, where she'd spent the last three years in search of a suitable match—her father's hope and definitely not hers—she had also become known, to her everlasting chagrin, as the Killer of Men .

Rubbish, all of it. As if she'd had a hand in the death of her betrothed.

Any of them.

All three of them .

She'd had no say in the choice or in the bargaining, had held her head high as her aunt paraded her hither and yon, to this manor house and that keep, primarily in and around Glasgow where wealthy families abounded apparently. The meetings were arranged by her father, the introductions managed by her surly aunt. Raina thought her father must have offered his sister a reward; she could imagine no other incentive, as the woman was as cheerless in those endeavors as she was to Raina herself.

William MacLeod, her final suitor, she had mourned to some degree, as she had been fond of him. Fond mayhap was too strong; she had appreciated that he wasn't ancient, crooked, blind in one eye, or the owner of a grotesque lecherous stare, traits known by her two previous suitors-cum-betrothed. Raina had viewed him as the lesser of all evils presented to her as a possible lifelong mate. However, he was known to have a bit of a temper and that—and not any wish or witchcraft of Raina—had been what killed him. Known as well for his fondness for drink, MacLeod got into a violent altercation at a tavern. The brawl escalated, and he was fatally wounded by a knife thrust. His death was swift, ending his betrothal to Raina and sparking a brief investigation that concluded with little fanfare.

Her first betrothed, Sir Andrew Carmichael—the one-eyed, bent baron from Barrhead—was four years older than Raina's own father, who'd been in the autumn of his years when Raina was born twenty-four years ago. She'd been forced to shout simply to have conversation with the baron. He'd smelled of stale sweat and sour wine, and his skin was pallid and liver-spotted, hanging loosely from his gaunt frame.

She'd cried into her pillow for three nights straight when the contracts had been signed and the wedding date set, unable to rouse a smile in any hour of any day until the news came, three weeks before they would have wed, that he'd died in his sleep.

Naught but a scandalous four months later, she'd become the intended of Baron Whitehall, a man notorious for his unsavory reputation. A corpulent and greasy merchant from Dundee, the baron had an unsettling habit of invading her personal space, standing too close, his breath hot and smelling faintly of onions and ale. His hands, pudgy and damp, would often find excuses to brush against her, the touch lingering far too long. His laughter, a high-pitched, wheezing cackle, had grated on her nerves, having become the content of more than one nightmare.

The baron had succumbed to a sudden and severe illness that swept through Dundee. Despite the efforts of the best healers and herbalists, he deteriorated rapidly, his body unable to withstand the fever that ravaged him. His death, while tragic, was viewed by Raina as a merciful release.

With each death, the whispers grew louder. The once-bright prospect of marriage now seemed a grim impossibility, tainted by loss and rumor. She'd been brought home—still unwed, in mortifying humiliation, she was quite well aware—to attend her father, as he himself had been laid low by a grave illness.

He lay up there now, inside the vast fortress, all his never-ending schemes, for wealth, for power, for accolades, seeming only wasted endeavors when he'd failed in so many other areas, as a husband, a father, and a man.

Laird Malcolm MacQueen had never been a kind man, or rather he'd been kind and generous only to his ambition, which knew no bounds, He'd been ruthless in his pursuit of status and riches, often at the expense of those closest to him. To him, family was merely a means to an end, each person a tool to be used in his relentless climb to prominence.

As a husband, he had been distant and cold, more concerned with alliances and dowries than with love or companionship. Raina's mother had spent her days in lonely isolation, her spirit gradually eroded by Malcolm's indifference and harshness. When Lisbeth MacQueen passed eleven years ago, Raina felt as if she were the only one who mourned.

As a father, Malcolm had shown little affection or warmth towards Raina. She was naught but a pawn in his intricate game of power, her worth measured by the suitors she could attract and the alliances she could secure. Only the war with England and her father's part in it had saved her from an earlier marriage. Each betrothal he arranged was calculated to enhance his standing, with no regard for her feelings or happiness. Her fears and aspirations were dismissed as inconsequential, her dreams crushed under the weight of his expectations. Malcolm's iron-fisted rule over Lochlan Hall was mirrored in his dealings with his daughter. His words were often sharp, laced with criticism and disappointment; often he spoke with his fists or an open hand. He demanded perfection yet offered no guidance or support. Any show of weakness was met with scorn, any plea for understanding ignored.

Her brother had scarcely received either more notice or affection, despite being Malcolm's heir. More than a year had passed since Donald had been lost to the war. Once Raina and Donald had been close, once she had adored her older brother, had cherished him. However, a chasm had grown between them, forged by their father's frequent habit of pitting them against one another—as if they might battle for affection that was never shown—and when word came of Donald's passing, Raina had been left with a quiet void rather than a sharp pain. Donald's death brought him release from their father's harsh expectations, and it left Raina at times with the bitter resentment that she'd not been allowed the same.

She swept her gaze again over the beach and the bustle of activity, knowing the fisherman and women wouldn't begin to approach her for a while yet to claim their wages, not until the day's work was done. The familiar and unkind melancholy, which she loathed but was at a loss to rectify, sat heavily upon her. Her sweet mother had filled her with ideas and visions of a bright future, but now those dreams seemed distant and unattainable. Her mother had instilled in Raina a belief in a future that transcended her father's cold ambition and lack of affection, urging her to seek a life where kindness, compassion, and personal fulfillment were paramount. She had painted a future where Raina's strength and intelligence would be celebrated, where she could lead and inspire, where her voice would be heard, ringing with authority and kindness.

Yet, here she was, trapped by duty and expectation, her spirit tethered to a life that was as different from her mother's benevolent ambitions as was the sea from the sky.

She sighed and put her hand over the small rock covering the open ledger, pressing it down as a strong gust of sea air threatened to scatter the pages. With her other hand she clasped at the inkwell and quill. The basket in which she carried all her supplies, the ledger, the ink, the leather pouch of coins, wobbled and tapped against her leg beneath the table. The small money bag now sat upon the table as well but was unlikely to be moved by the wind, owing to the weight of it .

Seòras, Lochlan's steward, was expected to join her, as was his custom. He usually sat stoically and silently at her side, a figure of quiet authority. While Seòras maintained an aloof and taciturn demeanor, was not warm and engaging, Raina didn't mind his presence. He possessed a deep understanding of the estate's workings, effortlessly fielding questions and resolving issues that arose among the workers—matters Raina herself had yet to fully grasp, having been gone three years until this spring and prior to that, having been discouraged from learning anything useful.

The steward's timing was impeccable, often appearing just as the fishermen and women began to gather, forming a queue before Raina. She, on the other hand, never wanted that the workers should have to wait for their pay, always ensuring she arrived early to attend to their needs. Time spent on the beach didn't bother her; in fact, she embraced these moments. Any time at the seaside was well spent, she believed. The sound of crashing waves and the cries of gulls filled her ears, a calming backdrop to her thoughts. She glanced up at the turbulent sky, where dark clouds raced overhead, hoping the rain held off until her small task here was complete.

Her brief inattention allowed another rogue gust of wind to sweep the quill from the table. Raina stood from her small stool to fetch it, having to chase it a bit along the bottom of the cliffs as the wind carried it along. She caught up with it at the same time a hushed murmur swept through the workers. Pausing, a flush rising, she expected that they were laughing at her ungainly attempts to retrieve the feather.

No hostile gazes were settled on her though, but all cast overhead. Fingers pointed urgently toward the cliff and above, at Lochlan Hall. Raina followed their anxious gazes, her heart lurching in her chest. High on the cliff, a chilling sight met her eyes.

An army, hundreds strong, clad in green tartan, descended the steep slope with chilling precision. Banners emblazoned with fierce dragons whipped in the wind, their colors stark against the gray stone fortress. The rhythmic thud of their boots echoed ominously, drowning out the gentle lapping of the waves below. Their formation stretched across the cliff's edge, a formidable wall of warriors poised to descend upon the beach.

The glint of polished armor and the flash of deadly weapons caught the pale daylight, casting a sinister quality over the once serene landscape. Fright rose inside her, and among the workers as well as they watched the army advance.

Frozen in bewildered horror, Raina noted how the invaders negotiated the descent from Lochlan Hall's formidable cliff. The cliff face, while imposing, revealed pockets of gradual decline—narrow paths worn into the rugged terrain by centuries of use, the same pathways Raina and Lochlan's hardy fishermen used.

Where grass and rock met in a patchwork of earthy hues, a faint trail wound its way down. Here and there, tufts of resistant grasses clung stubbornly to the cliff's edge, providing precarious footing for those daring enough to descend.

As they progressed, their disciplined formation remained intact, each warrior navigating the natural obstacles with agility. The path, though treacherous in places, became easier after the initial rough go, offering the invaders a clear route to the beach below, weaving through patches of scrub and clusters of wind-sculpted dunes. About midway down, twenty feet above the shore, the remnants of steps carved into the stone were still visible and navigable. ?Twas a narrow stair, cleaved into the cliff face and battered sometimes by the sea, but sturdy yet, allowing the coming army to dash quickly two by two.

As the horde descended, Raina began to back up, slowly, confounded by so alarming and unexpected a sight. The table, the ledger, and the leather pouch were all forgotten as fright creeped along her spine.

Movement to the north caught her eye and her mouth formed a small o of horror, finding another horde rushing toward them from the lower cliffs there, obviously having found the hidden path a tenth mile further, a natural slope that allowed for a quicker descent. A clamor of noise came with them, louder and louder as they neared, their urgent shouts and the clatter of armor drowning out the soothing roar of the sea.

"To the boats!" Someone shouted. "To the boats!"

Seized by awareness and a greater fright, Raina turned and picked up her skirts, sprinting toward the sea. Her heart pounded as she ran through the sand and plunged into the water, splashing through the shallows, her stride desperate, her gaze on the nearest boat, the hide-covered currach.

The villagers, panicked and fearful, surged around her, scrambling into the boats in a frantic bid to escape the approaching army. She was jostled and shoved and once sent sprawling face first into the knee-high water, and then bumped again as she tried to find her feet. The skirt of her léine was caught beneath her knee and a crashing wave rolled and submerged her, the world around her reduced to a blur of churning water and muted sounds. She flailed, trying to regain her footing, but her soaked dress clung to her like a leaden weight, dragging her down. Finally, she emerged, spitting out water, and fought hard to put her feet beneath her, her hair plastered to her face.

Before she could reach the safety of the boat, rough hands seized her, yanking her back towards the shore. She struggled, her breath coming in ragged gasps, but the grip was unyielding. As she was dragged through the surf, she slipped, her feet losing purchase on the slick, uneven seabed. For half a second, the hands of the enemy left her, only to return, closer and more relentless, wrapping around her waist, lifting her off her feet.

Helpless and disoriented, Raina was carried back to the beach, her back pressed against her captor's chest. She strained against his hold, clawing at the arm around her middle, kicking her legs, but his grasp remained unyielding.

Others—all of them—suffered the same fate. A score of Lochlan's own was recovered before any boat had made good its escape, the invaders having quickly boarded the knarr and the currachs, forcing people into the water and toward the beach.

Never in her life had she experienced anything so harrowing, so blood-curdling.

Upon the sand, Raina was dropped to her feet, and dragged by her wrist to where the fisherfolk were being herded into one group, penned in by sword-wielding, mean-faced warriors. She was shoved so roughly that she crashed into Duncan, a brawny, miserable man. He shot her a venomous glare, his eyes narrowing into a snarl of disdain, and thrust her away.

Her hair, once neatly beribboned, was now a tangled, sodden mass plastered to her head and face. Saltwater streamed from her, trickling down her cheeks and dripping from her chin. Her léine, a rich plum velvet, and her kirtle underneath, hung heavily on her small frame, the fabric clinging to her like a second skin. Her teeth chattered, both from the cold and from fear, and her limbs trembled with exhaustion. Dimly, she realized she still held the feathered quill in her hand, the delicate plumed barbs clumped together.

Raina realized a fleeting surprise that there had been no resistance; the fisherman had not fought. But then she needed only a moment to understand why they'd chosen—attempted—to flee and not to fight: the overwhelming number of invaders and the disparity in weaponry. The enemy force was vast, outnumbering the villagers by hundreds, which would have made any attempt at resistance futile and likely to result in swift and brutal reprisal. And while the fishermen were skilled with their skinning knives, these were tools meant for their trade, not for combat against armed soldiers clad in armor and wielding swords and spears. Faced with such overwhelming odds and armed with only small knives, their instinct for survival prevailed, prompting them to flee rather than confront the invaders head-on.

As Raina and the fisherfolk stood huddled together, uncertain of their fate, the sea of warriors slowly began to step aside. A figure emerged, commanding attention with his terrifying presence as he strode forward through the ranks of men.

The only other woman among the group, Nell, a squat and pale lass of no more than twenty, stood next to Raina and crossed herself, beseeching the Blessed Mother to save her.

The man walking through the parting soldiers appeared to be nearing forty, his close-cropped hair mostly gray, accentuating his weathered features and the lines etched into his stern countenance. Unlike the rugged and disheveled men around him, this man appeared fresh and unruffled, his attire meticulously maintained. Pale sunlight glinted off the shiny steel of his sword and the polished metal of the brooch securing his breacan, casting occasional flashes that caught the eye.

He exuded an aura of menace and authority that chilled the air, commanding attention without effort. His posture was upright, every movement deliberate and controlled, giving the impression of a predator confidently stalking its prey, each step calculated to instill fear.

As he approached, his gaze swept over the captive fisherfolk with cold intensity, his hard blue eyes piercing through the chaotic scene with chilling clarity. His stare seemed to strip away any pretense of hope, leaving only a stark realization of their vulnerability.

Raina shuddered at what seemed a deliberate cold-heartedness and shrunk a bit behind all those who stood in front of her.

No one spoke, no one whispered. The only sound that filled the tense silence was the roar of the sea, suddenly as angry as the man approaching, it seemed.

As the man neared the herded and cowering peasants, he called out in a deep voice, "Raina MacQueen, daughter of a traitorous lord, come forth!"

Raina gasped quietly while her eyes widened dramatically.

The invading commander stood waiting, his eyes cold and assessing, looking at each face in the crowd.

Later, she would generously suppose that no one meant to betray her, but aye, enough glances were aimed at her, that the man with the icy eyes had only to say, "Seize her," before several soldiers pushed through the throng of frightened peasants and took her by the arms, bringing her roughly forward.

Raina was pushed to her knees before him, her breath coming in harsh, uneven gasps. Though she did not rise, she lifted her head, meeting his gaze with as much defiance as she could muster. Strands of wet hair again stuck to her face, partially obscuring her vision. She clenched her teeth to keep her lips from trembling. Water dripped from every inch of her, pooling around her knees in the sand. She knelt before him a bedraggled wreck, not much grander than a drowned rat, and knew this was not the way she wanted to die.

Grimly, on limbs of pudding, she forced herself to stand.

He surveyed her thoroughly for many long seconds without uttering a word, his lips thinned with displeasure.

A cold hand clutched at her heart for the assault of his stare.

Though she raised her chin defiantly, her insides quaked, fear coursing through her.

"I am Raina MacQueen," she acknowledged, amazed that she spoke firmly, that she hadn't croaked these words.

"Ye dinna look so much the Killer of Men now," he said after an excruciating length of time. His voice was deep, inexplicably smooth for one who owned so ominous a glare, a voice of absolute authority.

Despite her best efforts, her lips quivered anyway. Courage melted under the hot menace of his stare and with his mention of the horrid name that had followed her home to Lochlan Hall.

He knew her?

"I am Torsten de Graham, mormaer of Glenbarra Brae, knight of the realm, dispatched by King Robert Bruce to take Lochlan Hall for the cause of freedom," he declared with notable arrogance. His voice dripped with disdain as he continued, "And aye, ye are Raina MacQueen, title holder of the unfortunate epithet, Killer of Men , of which I will now relieve ye." He narrowed his cold blue eyes. "Is it any betrothal itself that ye despise? Or was it those men put forth as yer intended? Three, was it? Three men ye've been promised to and three men have died by means foul and brow-raising, ere any wedding could take place?"

Confusion briefly overtook her fear. "Relieve me of...?" Completely at a loss, it didn't occur to Raina to deny the awful label that had been so cruelly attached to her, but rather she confirmed it by asking, without a shred of wit, as if this was her only concern, "How do you expect to relieve me of...?"

He smiled darkly.

"I simply willna give ye time to kill me or have me killed," he said, his voice a pool of ice. "We will forgo the betrothal and be wed today."